


cut my roots & now my leaves are dead

by Solanaceae



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, Gen, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-26 19:04:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20394649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solanaceae/pseuds/Solanaceae
Summary: Following the move eastwards, the steward of the camp at Himring prepares for a Feanorian reunion.





	cut my roots & now my leaves are dead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maglor_still_lives](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maglor_still_lives/gifts).

> _Saddle me with your blame (Fortune find us)_  
_You cut my roots and now my leaves are dead_  
_They tumble down in pools of all the blood I bled_  
—Blood I Bled, The Staves  

> 
> Based on [this lovely artwork](http://fav.me/ddesqqw) by maglor_still_lives!

Even in mid-spring, the wind that blew from the north across Lothlann was bitterly cold. In the distance, the jagged peaks of Ered Luin stood stark against the sunrise breaking over the camp at Himring. Dawn was still a fascinating thing to Cemnariel, even ten years after her first sight of it: sunrise was utterly different from the gentle transition from mingled silver-gold light to Laurelin’s bright, warm glow. And it changed every time, in subtle ways. Some mornings it was a fire catching on the horizon like paper, red and orange flames licking up the edges of the sky; other mornings it was the softest pink haze, like the flesh of a peach. 

As Maedhros’ steward, Cemnariel often rose early for her duties, so the sunrise was a familiar companion to her morning routine. She wove between the tents and small temporary buildings that made up the camp, cloak whipping at her ankles as she wound her way steadily uphill, toward where the outer shell of the half-built fortress rose. It was not strictly necessary, but she liked being able to see the camp from above: the tents she kept in neatly ordered lines, the paths where the grass had been trodden into bare dirt.

Looking northeast, across the March, Cemnariel could see a dark gathering of people on horseback, silver armor and spear-tips glinting, dust rising in their wake as they rode to Himring. 

Lord Maglor and the cavalry were returning.

***

By the time the cavalry made their way through the lower hills surrounding Himring, the sun had climbed high enough in the sky that Cemnariel decided to shed her cloak. She stood at the edge of one of the dirt paths as Maedhros emerged from his tent, ducking his head to avoid the tent pole that formed the doorframe. Cemnariel resisted the urge to frown—she had asked, months ago, if he wanted a taller tent to accommodate his height, and he had refused. 

Maedhros had deep, bruise-like shadows under his eyes, and the paleness of his face made the lingering scars on his cheeks stand out. The move east had worsened his nightmares, both separating him from his cousin and leaving him with only wide open plains between him and the threat to the north. Cemnariel would not be surprised if he had had another restless night. Still, he gave her a tired smile and lifted his left hand in greeting.

“My lord,” she said, bowing her head. “Your brother has arrived.”

He adjusted the golden cap on the stump of his right wrist, then nodded. “Thank you, Cemnariel.” He fell into step beside her. They crossed through the camp, Cemnariel deftly avoiding the paths she knew would be muddier. 

Maglor’s return was only the beginning—Maedhros had informed Cemnariel somewhat belatedly that two more of his brothers would be riding up from the south for a visit within the next handful of days. If it had only been Caranthir coming, Cemnariel might not have been quite so worried: the fourth brother dealt mainly with taxes and trade, and was surprisingly polite to his servants despite his fiery temper, which was more often directed at his brothers and cousins. It seemed, however, that Caranthir would be accompanied by Curufin, who had been helping in Thargelion with some issue and who would be sure to turn a critical eye to every aspect of Himring’s camp. Cemnariel had spent the last day or so overseeing the fevered bustle of preparations for that.

In the center of the camp was a wide open space with only a few patches of wilted grass bravely poking through the packed dirt. There, Maglor sat on the back of a bay horse, reins held loosely in his hands and helm hanging from his saddle. Beside him, on a stallion as dark as midnight, was a woman with gray eyes and a confident tilt to her smile as she leaned in to say something to Maglor—Sinyárë, the commander of the cavalry in Maglor’s Gap. 

When Maglor’s eyes fell on Maedhros and Cemnariel emerging from between the tents, he swung down from his saddle, landing lightly on the ground. He strode forward and clasped Maedhros’ arm, drawing his brother into an embrace. He whispered something—too quiet for Cemnariel to catch—then said aloud, “It is good to see you, Maitimo.” 

The brothers exchanged pleasantries. Cemnariel’s attention was half-focused on keeping an eye on her lord in case he needed something from her, and half-focused on Sinyárë. The latter caught her gaze, smiled, and mouthed, _find me later._

***

After seeing Maedhros and Maglor to the command tent, Cemnariel went to the stables. The log building stood near the entrance to the camp, unadorned but solid, one of the first structures they had set up upon moving to Himring.

Sinyárë stood in one of the stalls, brushing down her horse. She was still in her armor, though her helm was tucked under one arm, and she hummed as she ran the stiff-bristled brush down her horse’s rippling coat. 

“You’re looking thinner,” she said without turning toward Cemnariel. “Aren’t you getting enough food here?”

“I’m busy,” Cemnariel replied. “I eat when my lord eats.”

“Which isn’t enough, either, by the looks of him.” Sinyárë set down the brush and turned, lips curving into a smile. “I am glad to see you alive and well, though. I worry that you’ll be worked to your death someday.”

“And I worry that you will be skewered by an Orc,” Cemnariel shot back.

Sinyárë ran a hand through her helm-mussed hair with a rueful laugh. “Those are simply the perils of being a soldier.”

Cemnariel’s eyes fell on Sinyárë’s bare wrist, where previously a bangle of gold from her betrothed had rested. Nenalassë had stayed behind in Valinor, unwilling to follow even her lover into the unknown darkness, but Sinyárë faithfully wore her token for years—until, it seemed, very recently. Idly, Cemnariel wondered what had changed, but deemed it impolite to ask. Instead, she said, “And how are the plains of Lothlann? What dangers are you tirelessly keeping us all safe from?”

“Lothlann is cold and lonely, and I miss the warmth of this camp while I am away.” Sinyárë reached out and tugged gently on the end of Cemnariel’s braid, adjusting the silver band that kept the strands together. 

Cemnariel smiled. “And we miss you. Is there anything I can help you with, to make your time here well-spent?”

Sinyárë’s eyes lingered on Cemnariel’s, then cut away. She turned back to her horse, lifting the brush again. “Unless you can step into the past and forestall certain poor decisions made by certain people, no. I do not know how I am expected to perform my duties when our lord decided to give half of our horses away to his cousin. We are still rebuilding from the breeding stock that remains.” Sinyárë’s mouth tightened with stress. 

“It was a peace gesture,” Cemnariel offered. 

“Of course it was.” Sinyárë rested her cheek against the flank of her horse, eyes fixed on some point in the distance. “But perhaps an ill-planned one.” There was a shiver of something unsaid running through her words, a tension like strung wire in the way she held herself.. 

Cemnariel placed her hand on Sinyárë’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “Sinyárë,” she said, and felt the cavalry commander relax a little under her touch. “What troubles you?”

“Can I be honest with you?”

Cemnariel nodded. “Always.”

“As terrible as this sounds…” Sinyárë sighed. “I am grateful that our lord lives, do not be mistaken about that. But he came back… changed. His policies—the brothers are no longer of one mind. I do not know if the move eastwards was in the best interest of our people, let alone his decision to build Himring here, to bear the brunt of any assault. He has a destructive mind, and he turns that inwards more and more. If it was only him who was harmed by this—” She made a frustrated noise, shook her head. “I only do not want our people put in danger.”

_Danger_ was relative—nothing about Beleriand would be safe the way Valinor had been safe, or the way they had believed Valinor to be safe. A century, five, ten centuries, they might have peace. But they had come here to wage war against Morgoth. Sooner or later, war would come to them, with all its dangers. 

“I understand,” Cemnariel said. 

***

“Cemnariel?” Sarear, one of the laundry people, stood in the entry to Cemnariel’s makeshift office, picking nervously at the edge of his thumbnail with his teeth. Morning had brought rain and gray skies, and there were raindrops caught in his hair and blowing in through the open door.

Cemnariel frowned, setting down her quill. “Yes? Come in.”

“Tatyalótë sent me,” he said, not moving from where he stood. “She requests that you come to the kitchens.”

“What’s the trouble?” 

“Some of the kitchen workers have reported hearing noises in the walls of the kitchens.” Sarear’s voice dropped to a whisper. “They’re saying it might be haunted by a malevolent spirit. Maybe something sent from the north.”

“Sarear,” Cemnariel said, keeping her tone even, “Do you truly think that if Morgoth were to send a wraith to spy on us, he would send it to our _kitchen_, of all places?” Last she had checked, spirits did not have much need for the sort of sustenance the chefs provided the camp.

A flash of uncertainty across his face. “Will you come and check, though?”

Valar save her, she had too much to do in preparation for Caranthir and Curufin’s arrival to be entertaining this nonsense. But morale was important. She sighed, standing and pushing the ledger on her desk to the side. “Yes. Let me get my cloak.”

***

The kitchens were another plain, utilitarian building similar to the stables, but set near the center of the camp with smoke rising from its chimneys and the scent of fresh-baked bread wafting through the rain. Tatyalótë, the chief chef, had a pleasant smile that masked her reputation for being unforgiving of even the smallest of mistakes. 

“A few of the dish washers have reported hearing something moving around in the back wall of this storage area,” she explained, leading Cemnariel on a winding path between the barrels and sacks. Back here, the noise of the kitchens was muffled and the still air smelled of apples and grain. Rain pattered against the roof overhead. “Whatever it was, it’s too large to be a rat.” 

“What do you think it is?”

Tatyalótë shrugged, coming to a halt by a portion of wall where the barrels had been shoved aside. “Some sort of small animal, doubtless. But I appreciate you coming to take a look at it and put their minds at ease.”

Cemnariel knelt by the wall, listening intently. Beneath the sound of rain outside, there was the faintest rustle, like tiny feet scraping against wood shavings. She started tapping her knuckles against the wood. As Tatyalótë watched, she moved up and down the wall, working her way toward the corner. 

Eventually, the sound her fingers rapping against solid wood changed to the dull, resounding thud that belied a hollow space beneath. Cemnariel paused, feeling around the edge of the board, then drew her dagger and worked it into the seam between the floor and the wall, wiggling it back and forth.

“Please don’t do any permanent damage to my pantry,” Tatyalótë muttered, leaning in to watch her work.

“I’ll do my best not to.” Cemnariel carefully nudged the blade in deeper, pushing until she could change her angle and lever the wide wall panel away from the underlying structure. It came away into Tatyalótë’s hands, revealing a gap between the paneling and the outer wall. 

In a nest of wood shavings and scraps of paper, five pairs of black beady eyes blinked up at her. The largest of the creatures was the length of Cemnariel’s forearm, plump and gray-furred with a mask-like pattern of black fur around its eyes. The other four were smaller—Cemnariel could have easily held one in the palm of her hand—but had the same black masks and bushy, striped tails as their parent. 

Beside them was a sizable loaf of bread, half-gnawed away, and several shriveled, cut-up vegetables. At the sight of that, Tatyalótë made a disgusted noise.

“They didn’t steal that bread loaf themselves,” she said firmly. “I keep a very close eye on things like that. Besides, those vegetables are from dinner two nights ago.”

Cemnariel did not doubt that she was correct. “Then someone must have brought them back in and given it to them.” She reached in carefully and extracted one of the babies. Its fur was surprisingly soft as it curled up in her hand, nuzzling at her fingers with the tip of its black nose.

“I’ll look into that,” Tatyalótë sighed. “In the meantime, what do we do with these? They can’t stay here. It’s not sanitary.”

“Of course not.” Cemnariel stroked the head of the creature with one finger, smoothing down the fur between its ears. Tatyalótë glanced sideways at her.

“I do not think it is suitable for a pet, either.”

She set it carefully back down in the nest. “Probably not.”

“Perhaps the falconers are in need of food for their birds,” Tatyalótë offered. When Cemnariel furrowed her brow, she said, “What? I am only trying to think practically.” 

Cemnariel stood, wiping flecks of wood off her fingers onto her pants. “Give them to the stablemaster,” she decided. “Haldamir can keep them warm and dry until the babies are old enough to let loose in the forest.” 

“A lot of effort for some pests. Some of these have been found in our traps, you know. These might very well end up on your dinner plate in a few months.”

Cemnariel shrugged. “Be as that may, I would rather not kill them now.”

***

By afternoon, the rain had stopped and the skies had cleared, letting work resume on the building of Himring. Cemnariel climbed the switchback path that ran from the camp at the base to the half-built fortress at the top, avoiding puddles as she went.

Maedhros had insisted that Himring be as self-sufficient as possible, able to support itself for a long period of time in case of a siege. The biggest problem, Cemnariel had informed him, was not weapons of defense—the walls would be more than enough to keep out Morgoth’s armies—but a steady supply of food and water, essential for both people and steeds. The Hill of Himring was an ideal location for a fortress not only for how it stood above all the other hills, and not only because its flat top was already bare of trees. At its highest point, a river emerged from a spring beneath the stone, running clear and cold down the slope. It was this river, now called Little Gelion, that made Himring possible. 

Avaldiel, the chief architect, had devised an ingenious mechanism that would run the river water all throughout the fortress in order to provide (she said) an infinite supply of fresh water carried through pipes in the walls. After flowing through the fortress, the river would be directed down from the fortress proper to the slightly lower outer wall to flow off its side in an artificial waterfall. 

Cemnariel climbed to the top of this outer wall, the soles of her boots turning white with dust from the cut stone. At the top, she leaned on the parapet, chin in her hands and eyes scanning the construction area.

The hill was a hive of activity, with people scurrying to and fro and horses carting blocks of stone up to be placed. The air rang with the sound of metal hitting stone and chatter or shouts or laughter rising above the din. Weaving under it all was the sound of falling water as Little Gelion splashed its way over the wall to wind down the slope, the sun reflecting in dazzling shards off its surface.

A voice from behind her, tinged with pride. “Lovely, isn’t it?” 

“Absolutely beautiful,” Cemnariel agreed. 

Avaldiel joined her at the parapet, propping her elbows on the stone. The chief architect was plump with a generous scattering of freckles across her pale cheeks. Her auburn hair was drawn back from her face in a bun, but escaped wisps framed her face, catching the sunlight. “The fortress as a whole is coming along faster than I had expected,” she mused. “At this rate, we may not have to spend next winter in the tents.”

“That would be greatly appreciated by many, I’m sure,” Cemnariel replied. 

Avaldiel nudged her. “I know you hate the cold. No need to demure.” 

Cemnariel laughed. “Well. A good steward puts the needs of the camp over her own, no?” She gestured to the waterfall. “But this is truly a masterpiece of design. You should be proud.”

“Oh, I am,” the architect replied breezily. “Fear not, I know well the worth of my own work.” 

Cemnariel thought of Sinyárë’s words the night before and asked, “What do you think of our location here?” 

Avaldiel shrugged, seeming to take the abrupt change of subject in stride. “Tis an excellent site for overlooking the other hills. And the forest nearby is a good resource.”

“No, I mean—strategically speaking. As a point of defense.”

“Ah.” She frowned. “I’m no military genius, mind, but I think that this locaiton was picked to guard over all the open lands. And I’ve designed this fortress with war in mind, of course.” 

“Does it bother you that such a lovely structure is meant for enduring battle?”

“It’s a chance to display my talents. There wasn’t much call for architects to build grand fortresses in Valinor, was there? I care little for what the purpose of this place is to be, as long as I may leave my mark in stone to stand for an Age.” Avaldiel grinned. “Is that irreverent of me? Perhaps. But that is how I feel.”

***

“Excuse me, Cemnariel?”

Cemnariel turned. Hurrying toward her was Parmandil, one of the records keepers. His spectacles were crooked, his hair escaping his braids in dark wisps. Trailing behind him was a young girl who barely came up to his waist, with shoulder-length black hair and several smudges of dirt on her cheeks. She had her father’s stern eyebrows and square jawline, but when she looked up and waved at Cemnariel, her face melted into that of her mother’s, a captain in the cavalry unit under Sinyárë.

“Good evening, Parmandil. Is this Cenirë?” She made a point of being familiar with everyone in the camp, as any good steward should, but Parmandil’s daughter had been away with her mother for some time, and was significantly grown since the last time Cemnariel had seen her.

“Yes, this is Cenirë,” he said, coming to a halt and gesturing the girl forward. “And she has an apology to make to you.”

“Oh, does she?” She turned her attention to Cenirë, who did not look very apologetic. Instead, Cemnariel got a wide grin and a salute with a wooden sword that Parmandil promptly tried to snatch away.

“Cenirë, _apologize_,” he said, clearly trying to sound stern. His success was somewhat dampened by the way his daughter kept dancing out of his arm’s reach every time he reached for the wooden sword.

“I’m sorry for feeding the animals in the kitchen wall,” Cenirë said cheerfully. “Won’t do it again.” 

Parmandil was finally successful in snatching the toy sword. He tucked it under his arm, huffing. Cenirë pouted.

“Thank you for your apology,” Cemnariel said cautiously.

“What’s that?” Cenirë pointed to the ledger in Cemnariel’s arms. 

“It’s a record of supplies for the cavalry.”

Cenirë’s eyes lit up with delight. “The cavalry! My mother is in the cavalry. I want to be a soldier someday, just like her, but Father says I’m not old enough yet. Are you a soldier?”

“No, I’m the steward of the camp,” Cemnariel replied, smiling. “I make sure that all the soldiers get food and clothing, and that they have a camp to come home to.” 

“Is that very important? Can I help?”

“Cenirë,” Parmandil said, tugging on his daughter’s hand. “I think we’ve bothered Cemnariel enough.”

“But I want to help! You’re always saying I need to stop bothering you and do something _helpful_.” Cenirë bounced from foot to foot. Cemnariel suppressed a smile—staid and orderly Parmandil’s patience was already visibly frayed by his daughter’s enthusiasm.

He dithered for a moment, then turned imploringly to Cemnariel. “Would you mind…?”

“As long as she stays out of trouble, she’s welcome to accompany on my duties.” She expected that, with Cenirë’s temperment, the girl would get bored after a day or so and return to pestering her father.

“Say thank you, Cenirë,” Parmandil said, sounding exhausted.

“Thank you,” Cenirë said dutifully, then grinned. “I’ll be the most helpful helper you’ve ever had, I promise!” 

Parmandil leaned in and lowered his voice to whisper in Cemnariel’s ear. “I have one request.” 

Cemnariel raised an eyebrow. “And that is?”

“Please do your best to keep the soldiers from swearing around her. She’s already picked up several terrible phrases from her mother, and I shudder to think that she might learn more from your cavalry friends.”

***

Sinyárë’s tent was a smaller one, but private—one of the privileges of being cavalry commander. Cemnariel stopped by in the evening, meaning to clear some supply numbers with her, but when she knocked on the tent pole and was called inside, she found Sinyárë in a loose, gauzy tunic with her hair tumbling down over her shoulders. On the small fire, a pot of water was reaching a boil.

“Sit and stay a while,” Sinyárë invited. 

Cemnariel sank down onto one of the cushions scattered over the ground. “What’s this?” she asked, gesturing to the small satchel of dried leaves in Sinyárë’s lap.

“Tea leaves from the far south slopes of Ered Luin.” Sinyárë lifted it to allow Cemnariel to smell it. The leaves had a dry but warm scent.

When the water boiled, Sinyárë sprinkled the tea into two cups and poured the water over it, steam rising around her face as she bent down, inhaling. She handed one to Cemnariel, who took a tentative sip and promptly burned her tongue. Trying to keep a straight face, she nodded. “Lovely.”

“It will do,” Sinyárë mused. “You know, in Valinor, the tea from Yavanna’s gardens was without compare.”

“I’ve always preferred wine,” Cemnariel admitted.

The corner of Sinyárë’s mouth twitched upward. “And how are the wines here? Comparable to Valinor?”

“Not at all,” Cemnariel laughed. “We have hardly had time to set aside vintages to age for centuries, after all.” She took another sip, and this time avoided scalding her tongue. The tea was pleasantly flavored, if a little subtle for her taste. “But we make do.”

Sinyárë hummed. “It seems we make do in many ways, here. Was that what we expected, crossing the sea to come to this new land?”

Startled by the shift in tone, Cemnariel searched for something to say. “We were never promised immediate success.”

“What _were_ we promised? What have we gotten for what we lost?” There was a spark of something strange in Sinyárë’s eyes, like fire reflected in waves. Her cup of tea sat at her knee, forgotten and slowly cooling. 

“There was nothing left for us in Valinor. Not after Morgoth destroyed the Trees.” Cemnariel let out a long breath. “And what we have found here…” She trailed off, unable to finish the thought in a way that would make sense to Sinyárë. 

“There could be something here,” Sinyárë said, hand closing around Cemnariel’s. “That is what we are trying to do by building Himring, is it not? To create a home here in Beleriand to replace the one we left behind.” 

“It is.”

“And you desire a home?”

Cemnariel nodded. “I think we all do.”

Sinyárë’s fingers tightened, and Cemnariel swore she could feel the beat of the other’s heart through her skin, faster than normal. “And what, after all,” she murmured, “are any of us without a place for our hearts to call home?”

There was a slow warmth spreading in Cemnariel’s chest that had nothing to do with the tea. She watched as though from a distance as Sinyárë leaned forward, eyes drifting half-closed to stormy slits, gaze seeming to drill into Cemnariel. Closer, and closer still, until she could feel the stir of air as Sinyárë exhaled, lips tantalizingly close to Cemnariel’s— 

She pulled back, movement abrupt enough that Sinyárë, for all her grace, nearly fell over. Sinyárë opened her mouth, a question in her eyes, but before she could say anything, Cemnariel shot to her feet. Her knee knocked her cup over, spilling hot tea over the cushions, turning the red fabric a blood-dark shade.

“Cemnariel,” Sinyárë said, reaching for her hand as though to tug her back down. “What’s the matter?”

“I have to go,” she blurted out, face afire. What was she _doing,_ making advances on Sinyárë? Sinyárë was betrothed. It wasn’t right, letting her heart outpace her head like this.

A flicker of hurt confusion flashed across Sinyárë’s face. Cemnariel swallowed down the sudden thorns in her throat and turned, pushing the tent flap aside and striding into the chilly night. 

***

Once she was out of sight of Sinyárë’s tent, Cemnariel’s steps slowed. The wind chilled the wet spot on her pants where the tea had splashed her. Her teeth chattered from the cold and the lingering panic that had swept over her, making her flee. 

A few minutes of aimless wandering, then Cemnariel found herself at the edge of the river. After spilling over the outer wall, Little Gelion ran along the eastern edge of the camp, heading south to join its sibling. The water here was narrow and swift-running, frothing white against the rocks that protruded from the riverbed. Cemnariel approached until the ground went soft and muddy under her boots, then bent to pick up a pebble. She turned it over in her hands, letting out a long breath that fogged in the air before her.

Where had she gone wrong?

It was not as though she had been unaware of Sinyárë’s interest. And the cavalry commander was captivating, charismatic, but that did not mean Cemnariel had any right to pursue her. She should not have _encouraged—_

(Sinyárë’s piercing eyes, the yearning in her voice. _What are any of us without a place for our hearts to call home?_) 

Cemnariel’s throat tightened. She bit back the urge to sob and instead hurled the pebble into the river with all her strength. It plunged below the surface with a splash, lost to view under the rushing water. 

***

In the morning, Cemnariel, though exhausted from her sleepless night, collected Cenirë from her father and gave her a notebook of her very own, along with a quill suited for her small hand.

“We will visit the kitchens today,” Cemnariel explained. “Keeping our people supplied with food is one of our highest priorities.”

Cenirë nodded and wrote down_ food is important_, tongue protruding from between her lips as she focused on forming the letters.

By this time, breakfast had been served and the midday meal was yet several hours away. The kitchens were at as much of a lull as they ever were, under Tatyalótë’s watchful eyes. One of the kitchen workers, a half-Vanya named Feriniel, sat perched on top of a pile of sacks, nimble fingers picking out a melody on the strings of her lute. Her fair hair fell over her forehead as she bent over her instrument, the rippling song filling the humid air.

Cemnariel left Cenirë watching this with rapt attention and made a circuit of the kitchen, noting the wood supply for the stoves, the state of the cookware. She could depend on Tatyalótë to give her a full written report that detailed the kitchens down to the last crumb, but she liked seeing it for herself.

When she returned to the front, Feriniel had finished her song. Tatyalótë emerged from a storage room, dusting flour off her hands and onto her apron. 

“Cemnariel,” she said, nodding. “Good to see you again.”

“Likewise,” Cemnariel replied. “Any more problems I should be aware of?”

“Not since those animals were taken to the stables, no.”

Cenirë piped up eagerly. “They’re _raccoons_.” A strange word, perhaps Sindarin, that Cenirë’s tongue seemed to stumble over. 

Tatyalótë turned to her. “And who is this?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“My clerk,” Cemnariel said, and Cenirë beamed.

“I’m helping her with her duties!” 

Tatyalótë nodded slowly. “Well. That’s lovely. Don’t go putting any more… raccoons in my walls, please.”

*** 

She took Cenirë from the kitchens to the stables, where Cenirë introduced her to each of the creatures—the raccoons—by the names she had given them. How the girl could tell them apart, Cemnariel was not sure, as they all looked the same to her. Except for the largest one, of course, which Cenirë confidently informed her was the mother of the other four.

The next stop was the falconers, then back up the hill to speak to Avaldiel. By the end of the day, Cemnariel left Cenirë with her father, bubbling with excitement over all the things she had seen that day. Cemnariel was starting to wonder if her initial assessment of Cenirë had been incorrect and her clerk was to be a long term fixture.

Back in her own tent, she went through ledger after ledger by candlelight until her head ached. Caranthir and Curufin would be arriving by evening the next day, and if the camp was not in _perfect_ order by then, it would reflect poorly on Maedhros. 

The sound of footsteps outside her tent, coming closer. She kept her eyes on the ledger, trying to decipher the thin column of numbers with tired eyes. Her tent flap lifted, someone entering on soft feet.

“If you haven’t got an appointment, I’d really appreciate it if you waited until tomorrow to speak to me,” she said, not looking up.

“Cemnariel.”

A feeling like someone had spilled ice water down her back. Her quill stuttered, sending a splatter of black ink over the margins of the ledger. Slowly, she set it down and turned to see Sinyárë standing there. The cavalry commander’s hair was drawn back into a tight braid, a guarded expression on her face that Cemnariel was sure was mirrored on her own.

“Good evening,” Cemnariel said stiffly. “What can I help you with?”

Sinyárë knelt at her side. “Why did you run from me?”

The icy feeling grew stronger. “Sinyárë,” Cemnariel whispered, pained. “I do not have time—”

The cavalry commander spat out a word that would have made Parmandil blush. “_Make_ time, then. Do you not desire—this? Me?” She gestured between them. “Have I been reading your intentions incorrectly?”

Cemnariel’s throat grew tight, heartbeat thrumming in her ears and shaking hands. “I do desire you,” she managed to choke out. “You are not wrong about that.”

Sinyárë placed her hand on Cemnariel’s cheek, calloused fingers gentle against her skin. When she spoke again, it was in a strained whisper. “Then why do you flee from me?”

“It’s not right,” Cemnariel breathed, but she made no move to pull away. It was as if the ground had become grasping vines, holding her in place. 

Sinyárë’s eyes, gray like lightning behind a storm cloud, narrowed. “Why not?”

“You—Nen—”

“Do _not_,” she snapped. “This is not about my past. We left all that behind when we burned the ships. I desire a new beginning. A new _life_, made here as we were promised. Do you not wish the same? You said you did.” The last was spoken with a faintly bitter twist of her lips.

Cemnariel opened her mouth and slowly closed it again, silence a weight on her tongue. Valinor was a distant silver dream, half-forgotten like rain in the morning but painfully real at the same time, like an open wound she could not resist returning to. She did not regret leaving, but sometimes she woke in the middle of the night and tasted ash and ice, saw the burning ships reflected in the unforgiving ocean. 

The quiet stretched on a moment too long. Sinyárë drew back, face going stone-hard. 

“Very well,” she said, voice painfully quiet. “If you wish to speak again, you know where I am to be found.”

She rose and exited the tent, leaving behind only the faint scent of tea and oiled leather. 

***

Cemnariel expected another sleepless night, but her sense of duty and need to be fully rested must have overtaken her, because after a few hours of tossing and turning, she fell into a fitful slumber and woke with dawn sending thin fingers of light between the gaps in the tent flaps. 

She dressed slowly, drawing on each article of clothing with deliberation, focusing on her task to avoid thinking of the stark ache in Sinyárë’s eyes the previous night. To her surprise, when she left her tent, she found Maglor waiting outside, looking uncertain.

“My lord,” she said, affixing a smile to her face. “You could have sent for me. What can I do to help you?”

“It is nothing official,” he said. As always, she was struck by how musical his voice was even in normal conversation. “I have a question for you, as steward of my brother’s camp.” 

“I will answer to the best of my ability, my lord.” This was strange—Maglor hardly ever acknowledged her existence, and now he came to her with a question?

Maglor cleared his throat, adjusting the edge of his already perfectly straight sleeve. “Could you tell me how our people are reacting to the move eastwards? To my face, and that of my brother’s, everyone has been perfectly agreeable, but—” The corner of his mouth twitched downwards. “I am not so naive as to think that everyone is of one mind and _content_ as well.”

Ah. It was a reasonable inquiry, but she was unsure of how to answer it. “There are mixed emotions,” she said eventually. “As there would be with any significant change, I believe. But I have no worries as to the loyalties of our people, if that is where your concerns lie.”

Maglor shook his head. “Nay, that is not—loyalty is all well and good, but I would that we have a content population as well as loyal. After all, it was unrest and dissatisfaction with our lot that brought us here, was it not?” 

He smiled at the last part, as though to turn it into a jest, but it fell flat. Cemnariel blinked, wondering how best to leave this conversation. 

“Yes, my lord,” she said.

Maglor nodded, eyes drifting away and smile slipping from his face. “Well, I should leave you to your duties.” He turned and strode away.

Cemnariel let out a long breath. She barely had a handle on her own emotions regarding leaving Valinor, let alone the move east, let _alone_ how everyone else was feeling. She had a good idea of how Sinyárë thought of it—that terrible things had happened, but it was now up to them to build a new life and make the best of what they had. For her own part, regret reared a thorny head in her chest more often than she would have liked to admit.

But she had duties to attend to. A camp to run. There was, thankfully, very little time for her to dwell on the past when she had so much to do.

***

When the horns announcing Curufin and Caranthir’s arrival sounded in the early afternoon, Cemnariel started and nearly knocked over her bottle of ink. It was hours to early for them to be arriving, but her life was such that of course they would be more than punctual. 

She paused long enough to think up a few choice swears, then hurried out of her tent, clasping her cloak shut as she went. 

In the center of the camp, Maglor was already waiting. He glanced up as Cemnariel approached and gave her a stiff nod. Maedhros was nowhere to be seen, and Cemnariel resisted the urge to worry at her bottom lip with her teeth, an old anxious habit. He had surely heard the heralds, but she should have gone to his tent to make sure.

Before she could consider going to him, however belatedly, Curufin and Caranthir rounded the corner. Both wore cloaks of dark red, but Caranthir’s dark hair was drawn back into a braid, and Curufin’s fell loose around his shoulders. They came to a halt in front of Maglor; Cemnariel stayed a few steps behind and attempted to blend into the background, something she was well practiced at.

“Where’s Nelyo?” Curufin asked Maglor. Maglor glanced at Cemnariel, who kept an impassive face despite the fact that she absolutely should have known where her lord was.

“On his way,” Maglor replied.

“He needs to have the road up to here paved. It was terribly muddy after last night’s rain.” 

Footsteps from behind Cemnariel. She turned, relief washing over her as she saw familiar flame-red hair. Maedhros wore a heavy cloak of deep purple that nearly obscured his entire body, but his gold-capped wrist lay against his side, clearly visible—a defense mechanism, Cemnariel suspected, to present his greatest weakness first and of his own accord. 

“Nelyo!” Caranthir lifted a hand in greeting. “You’re looking well.”

“Curufin, Caranthir,” Maedhros said. The silence that followed might as well have sprouted blades for how sharp it seemed. Apparently unaffected, Maedhros continued, “Join us for dinner tonight. It’s been far too long.”

Caranthir was the first to compose himself. “Of course.”

Cemnariel could have sworn that Curufin’s face had turned to stone and ice, but the younger brother nodded, an abrupt jerk of his chin. 

***

She searched for the brothers’ entourage and found them near the stables, removing their baggage from the horses and carrying them off to the tents. Her eyes sought and found one in particular, dressed in a gold-embroidered tunic with red ribbons woven into his hair.

“Asyaro!” she called. 

He perked up at the sound of his name, looking around. When he saw Cemnariel, he set his bundle down and rushed over to throw his arms around her, nearly knocking her off balance.

“Cemna,” her elder brother said, grinning up at her. “It’s wonderful to see you, sister.” 

“Take a walk with me,” Cemnariel suggested.

“I would love nothing more. Show me what wonders you’ve worked since I last was here.”

They walked, Cemnariel pointing out new features of the camp and Asyaro filling her in on all the gossip he overheard as Caranthir’s chamberlain. It seemed that Caranthir, always as liable to spark as flint, had often found himself at odds with steely Curufin even during the brief time the latter had spent in Thargelion helping with an engineering project. Cemnariel was not surprised; nor, it seemed, was anyone else familiar with the brothers. 

Cemnariel hoped that the conversation would stay in such safe territory, but her brother ever had a talent for arrowing straight to the heart of things, often striking true without meaning to. Before they had made a full circuit of the camp, Asyaro was on the subject of romance.

“It has been some time since your last dalliance—what was his name, the Vanya with the pet peacock?” He nudged her with his elbow, giving her a crooked smile. “Surely you’ve moved on to greener pastures.” 

Cemnariel frowned. “Asyaro, please, I am not some maiden to be teased.”

He laughed brightly. “I think that some relaxation would do you good, sister, that is all.”

“Well, perhaps not all of us have such liberty to waste our time with _dalliances_,” she snapped, sudden anger rising in her chest. 

Asyaro’s face fell, hurt flickering through his dark eyes. 

Cemnariel bit the inside of her cheek hard and tasted blood. “Damn it,” she said softly. “That was uncalled for. I apologize.”

Her brother reached out and touched her shoulder. “Is something the matter, Cemna?”

“No,” she said instinctively—and too quickly. Asyaro’s expression shifted to concern. 

“You’re usually a better liar than that. What troubles you?”

She opened her mouth to refuse again, but instead the whole story spilled out—her mutual desire for Sinyárë, the problem of Sinyárë’s betrothed, how she had let Sinyárë leave her tent the night before without even trying to explain how she felt. 

Asyaro listened intently, and when she finished, he said, “And you care for her?”

“I do,” Cemnariel said, pained. “But her betrothed—”

“Is an ocean away. And she has set aside Nenalassë’s token, has she not?” Asyaro reached up to tap her nose, giving her a wink. “I think you should speak to her again. And be clear about your feelings this time. Do not hide them, as I know you like to do.”

“A good steward sets aside emotion.”

“This isn’t _stewardship_, Cemna. This is love. Let yourself feel honestly.”

Cemnariel sighed. “You’re right. Of course. But will she forgive me for being so insensitive?”

“You won’t know until you speak to her.” Asyaro patted her on the back. 

***

Attached to the outer wall and facing what would become the fortress was a guardhouse, with solid stone walls and a floor paved with white marble. In the absence of other proper buildings, it was here that Cemnariel had had a banquet table constructed and chairs set out for dinner. The smell of cut wood and sawdust hung in the air, and the brothers’ footsteps did not even echo in the small space as they took their seats.

“Remember our table in Tirion?” Caranthir asked. He ran his fingers along the edge of the table, catching on—Cemnariel winced—a spot where the wood had not been entirely sanded down. “Between the seven of us, it must have been set on fire a dozen times.” 

He must not have been speaking of the official banquet table in Finwë’s palace, Cemnariel realized, but the table in their private home. She had never considered that the princes of the Noldor would have anything but lavish, pristine furniture. 

“If that table survived us, it will stand to the end of the world,” Maglor said mildly. 

Cemnariel supervised the serving of food, Tatyalótë’s finest craft brought up from the kitchens. Out of unspoken agreement, Cemnariel had arranged for the meal to consist only of food that could be eaten with one hand. 

Over the thinly sliced roast duck and asparagus, Maedhros broached the topic that Cemnariel knew had been on his mind the entire meal. “With Himring nearing completion, we should discuss governance. We have fallen into our own spaces within these eastern lands, but we should not abandon unity simply due to geographical distance.”

“A yearly meeting, perhaps?” Caranthir suggested. Cemnariel kept her face impassive with a slight struggle as she imagined having to prepare for the arrival of all of the other sons at the same time. 

“Not in the winter, of course,” Maglor said, the corner of his mouth twitching with faint amusement. “This Valar-forsaken hill is cold enough now as it is.”

“Of course not,” Maedhros agreed. “I know that not all of us agreed over this transition, but in my view, we have been making the best of it all.”

“Perhaps had certain of us not spoken so rashly in Mithrim, we would not have had to move eastwards,” Curufin remarked icily, staring at his wine glass as he swirled it. 

Caranthir bristled. “If you wish to say something, say it outright,” he said loudly. 

“Curvo,” Maedhros said warningly. “We do not need to dredge up old troubles.”

Curufin’s gaze snapped up toward his eldest brother, eyes narrowing to gray slits. “No indeed. But now you use my proper name, _Nelyafinwë_? Why is that?”

“Adopting Sindarin names is only a sign that we did not come here as conquerers,” Maedhros said. “We cannot simply stride in and refuse to make concessions to the people who already dwell here.”

Curufin laughed, the sound brittle. “You must worry about this in your own camp? Are you so unsure of your hold over your _own people_ that you would give in and assimilate?”

“I do not see it as assimilation.”

“Then you are _blind_, Nelyo!” Curufin stood abruptly, pushing his chair back across the stone with an ear-rending screech. “This—all of this could have been avoided. You could have been High King, not—not banished eastwards like some sort of _criminal_.” 

“Curvo,” Maglor said, voice soothing. “Sit back down. Quarreling will get us nowhere.”

Curufin gave him a withering glance and turned away, striding toward the door. It slammed behind him, and Cemnariel suppressed a flinch.

A long silence. Caranthir gazed into the depths of his cup, seeming determined to make eye contact with no one. Maglor’s head was in his hands. Alone out of the brothers, Maedhros seemed utterly unaffected, a pristinely calm mask affixed on his face.

“Cemnariel,” he said quietly. She straightened with surprise.

“Yes, my lord?”

“You can go.” The eldest son of Fëanor sounded exhausted, as though a thin thread of determination were all that kept his voice from trembling. “Thank you for your help tonight.”

She bowed.

***

She found Sinyárë at the top of the wall, sitting on the parapet with her legs dangling over the outer side. A thin glaze of moonlight lay over her hair and the crown of the waterfall that tumbled over the edge beside her. 

Cemnariel approached. “May I sit with you?” 

Sinyárë inclined her head. Cemnariel swung her legs over, settling into as comfortable a position as the stone allowed. Below her feet, Little Gelion fell, droplets of water like silver fireflies dancing in the air. No one else was visible; only the torches flickering in the camp far below indicated that there was more than silence in this night. 

“I wanted to apologize,” Cemnariel said at last.

“For?”

“Not being clear.” She reached tentatively for Sinyárë’s hand, and the cavalry commander let her take it, but still gazed out across the waterfall. “I do desire this. I desire to make a home here. With you, if you will allow it.”

Finally, Sinyárë met her eyes. “Truly?”

“Truly,” Cemnariel said firmly. She traced her fingers along Sinyárë’s wrist, outlining the space where her token from Nenalassë had rested. “And who knows—in time, perhaps we can replace this.”

Sinyárë’s smile was hesitant but hopeful. Emboldened, Cemnariel leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek. Sinyárë responded by leaning her head on Cemnariel’s shoulder.

“Apology accepted,” she murmured, wrapping an arm around Cemnariel’s waist.

They sat together on the moon-limned wall, breath silvering the air before them. Cemnariel inhaled the warm scent of Sinyárë’s hair and closed her eyes, world narrowing to the feeling of Sinyárë’s body against hers and the sound of the river rushing away. 


End file.
